Lost Rythm Rhapsody
by DeZia of Abiquiu
Summary: tsuDAKI, the True Sleepless City. Between lust, drugs, and the heartbeat of Bass and techno, people try to find something they like, a place to belong, themselves and eachother. But unlike the Showdowns of childhood, this is not a game... [slash]
1. Losing a Chance

_**Lost Rhythm Rhapsody**_

_Losing the Beat_

Dark dank disturbing, maybe a flair that he enjoyed more than others knew. The others? Stars, glowsticks, strings, necklaces, bracelets among the dark. Maybe he saw a face here and there. Maybe it was his imagination. But his eyes were on a bright spot of white, the Sun among those madly dancing stars, his dance was liquid gold, the sunshine that came off of him didn't light up anything around him. Though... it seemed people near him picked up the exotic movements. And the DJ watched as he spun, tried to match that man's moves to his music, or was the foreign man controlling his scratch, his spin, with every swing and twist of his shoulders and hips...?

He waved to the person in the shadows behind him, an exact replica of himself it seemed. "Jax, care to take over?"

"PSH, Jack Spicer, as flighty as ever. Sure thing, but you know I can do better than you anyday." Jack shoved his robot's shoulder, with a playful warning laugh.

"Just do the job, I'll be back." He finished spinning and handed the huge headphones over to Jax, who put them on and pushed him out of the booth.

"Have fun, you damn flirt."

"When have I done otherwise, Tinman?" With a sassy swing, he jumped out of the towerlike booth at the push, leaving the robot to work.

Through the crowd of Raving people, Jack danced his way towards what he wanted, towards the Brazillian dancing in the center of the mass of twisting, flinging movement. Why did he have to be so HARD to get to? It was a challenge, he knew it, but he should have known better than to taunt Jack at his own game. Trip and clutz about as he might, on the dancefloor or skating rink, Spicer was a different man.

His red hair shone under the blacklight, thanks to his new hair dye, and he had various glow bracelets and a spike collar that showed up as well, his fingernails painted with glowing swirls, his shirt glowing with stains of blacklight paints, and most eerily of all, his contacts took up the light as well, red eyes of a demon.

The Raving Demon.

Some people moved aside, in this city, DJ was an honorable title... underworld politics aside, he just looked that goddamn cool. At least, he thought so. And he was so close. But that spot of white disappeared, damn that Pedrosa! Jack wondered briefly what was happening, he had this inkling of an idea that something was wrong.

So? head for the bar, he was sure to be seen there, as much as the Brazillian hated drinking, one of his family, a sister of his ran the bar for Jack when Kimiko was out. And, today being the Japanese girl's day off, Raimundo could in theory be at the bar. HA. Outthought again.

A mental war was all it was. They'd grown up playing these games, and now it was no different. Police versus DJ was just an acronym for Monk versus Goth Boy.

But this time it was better. Because Jack was winning.

Perhaps scaling down his dream was the best thing Jack had ever done. The world? Overrated. All he needed was this city.

A place where everyone was always dancing. Wallflowers? He threw them out of his club. People were on a constant search for themselves, for fun, for a new powerful rythm, for drugs, for someone to share a bed with, occasionally a heart as well... it was all a quest to be the best, or the worst. And Jack had it in his head he'd get his club going... he had it in his head, behind his blazing red eyes, that this city filled with clubs, the True Sleepless City, it was as good as all his.

But, one thing evaded him.

As much fun as he'd had with Raimundo, there was no connection, a connection he hungered for. Lust was lust, and he was thinking that's all it was, and he knew Raimundo knew too. As much of a "Loner" as Jack was, he was sick of it. Sick of waking up alone, sick of waiting, sick of one-night stands with guys and girls who onl wanted a piece of the Swift DJ, the Savant Raver. What were they calling him these days?

The Raver Demon.

The bar swam into sight, out of the shallows of his reverie and into conscious waking reality. It seemed to be the only real place in the club, where warm light shone, if a bit dim, so unlike the techno-ethereal glow of smoke, of laser, of blacklight. A bit homey, Jack liked it.

Of course he liked it. He built it.

And, to be sure, there was Raimundo Pedrosa. City Police, occasional lover... Avoiding his gaze. Great.

But Jack was certain that he had taken notice of him. So he leaned on the bar beside him, neither one looking at the other.

"This is probably it Jack. My patrol is being transferred. To another City, I mean, way far."

There was a pang. Damn it, it hurt. Worse than he'd ever imagined it could. He leaned a bit more heavilly on the bar. "You're a liar, you'd come back here to visit your sister, right?" He found himself grasping... Hoping.

"I see her at home... I won't be able to make it back. This is the last time I'm going to be here." A note... a crack in the thick, warm accent. Great.

So Jack had been wrong.

He'd taken it for granted? Fuck. Great.

there was a connection the whole time, and he'd been too stupid to see it, too thik, to damnass cocky--

Too late.

"So, when are you out of here?" He asked, fiddling idlely with a shotglass, immersed in the way it bent the light, the image behind it, the way it bent reality, and another part of him focusing on finding Raimundo's voice when he replied.There was a longer pause than he would have liked, and it hurt just as bad as when he had heard the news.

"Probably... around ten this morning. So... I was goin' to just get outta' here now, looks like I can't escape from you though." His voice was a bit heavier, once again.

"Again, I say: Liar. You lead me here." Jack was only loud enough for the Policeman to hear. "I know you better than that. maybe you were going to run off..." His tone became more teasing, no matter what happened, Jack seemed to bounce back at an unnatural pace. "But you were guilty, and lead me up here, am I right? Couldn't bear to leave without saying 'Adios' to your old pal."

"... Fucking Blanco. Get out of my head, they always said you had the Evil Eye." For the first time that night, Jack felt the gaze of the Brazillian on him and, a hand on his shoulder, warm through his mesh shirt. His face pinked a bit more than he would have liked. Damn that Pedrosa. "You up for one more go?"

Jack could have melted, pushing away the sorrow that followed those words and reveling in the feel of the moment.

"One more night." He'd make it good, he swore. Last chances made everything better. And worse. But he could deal with that.

Up to Jack's apartment-like room on the fourth floor, they raced up the stairs as if they were kids again, just themselves witness to the backward step in mindset. No one but the dedicated staff ever went up there anyway, so they were alone, shouts, laughs, echoes... for a moment, Jack could have sworn they were in fact back to the "old days", but the beat below reminded him otherwise. For how much he had changed, Raimundo had done nothing but get older, and wiser, his wit sharper but his face and trained body were still the same... Jack douldn't say that for himself. He may not have gotten much taller (attributed to an inhumane consumption of caffeine that continued to the present), but his shape had changed, he was thinner, a bit more muscular from night after night of spinning tracks and dancing, his face, though still round and pale, had also become more streamlined and a bit angular, his eyes had lost their innocence, but not their mirth, and they had gained measure of their own fire and cunning. Demon cunning. Whe they reached Jack's door, he fumbled for the keys, getting father from his gols as raimundo nipped and kissed at his neck, around the spiked collar.

And in they went. The door closed behind them, and a dance so different from the Rave below began.

They were so opposite, Jack could see that as they undressed eachother, slipping from their shells to stand for a moment before eachother, hand reaching out to pull eachother closer, to intwine again, for one last time. It was like a moving painting, white skin airbrushed with red and pink flush of exhertion sliding against rich tanned skin, sliding against the grey sheets of the bed. Jack's reality was bending like light and image through the shotglass, pleasure, moisture, friction, whispers, breaathing, heartbeats were all in the same. Bittersweet kisses and bucking bodies, lips on his chest, moving ever downward, the feel and scent of Raimundo's hair. Even later the eperience stood out to him so vividly, so strangely surreal, as if it were all a dream as well as something he'd never forget. Even the sting of tears in his eyes when he realized that it could have been like that the whole time was a welcome sensation, just as it was welcome to Raimundo to feel those tears...

When at last he cried out and gave in to the passion, and Raimundo's hoarse Portugese murmur of pleasure and satisfaction mixed with his own voice, they lay still, holding eachother. Hands on eachother's faces, and Raimundo's wandered to Jack's hips. They didn't need to say anything. Their actions and heartbeats had told all, as if they had at last admitted through the sweat and languid movements and taken it into their very souls.

Still, Jack cried. He had always been emotional, never afraid to show his tears, even if it meant ridicule. This was it. The sound of shuffling sheets, and Raimundo pulled closer, ruffling his hair. "'M sorry Jack... so sorry..."

"Don't be. Best... best time of my life, really." Accepted. He was accepted. No one had ever appologized to him for anything... But it was over. He began fading to sleep, knowing he would wake up alone, and start again.

Loner? Not after this. Even if it hadn't lasted like they wanted, parting helped them both understand. They would get up, wipe away the tears, and start again. The lessons they had taught eachother since chilhood were now understood. The Raving Demon and the Fierce Typhoon parted ways.

But they had given eachother strength. wherever they were, they would remember this night, and how long they had been together, friends, rivals, enemies, and abrief flash of being lovers. Each one for the other's sake would now move on.

_Wipe away the tears, get up, and try again._

_

* * *

_

_So... I used to be known as Sonoran Silver... as Destiny Waterborn. Now I'm Loki DeZia, a much more fitting pen-name. My style has changed a lot, in art and in writing. A few notes on the fic:_

_It takes place in the role-play world on Gaia Online, my own tsuDAKI City. It is AU, but picks up where Xiaolin Showdown leaves off. Jack is about nineteen in the fic, possibly older. I'll do more chapters, each with a different pairing. Tell me what you think, constructive critisism is most welcome. First fic I've written in a long time... So naturally I'm rusty._


	2. Losing a Soul

Notes: Implied groupslash: Chackmundo. Violence.

* * *

**Lost Rhythm Rhapsody**

_Losing a Soul_

Fighting, failing, falling… hitting the floor crumpled and defeated. He knew he was bleeding, but somehow, it didn't register in his mind, he was past caring even as splatters sounded, blood on pavement. He stood up again to face the person opposite him. So it wasn't just a street thug, but someone he knew.

"Turn back." He whispered. "You've never won before."

He saw a brief flash of those eyes, glowing in the darkness, and then a fist slammed into him from behind. By the time he had recovered enough to see who it was, a hard-soled boot smashed into his back. Growling, almost roaring, he thrashed beneath the boot of the thing that was once Jack Spicer. On the other side stood a Raimundo… not the Raimundo. Something else lurked behind their eyes and powered their moves… Something soulless.

A voice so unlike the Brazilian's spoke. "Forget about us, or this will surely be our future, to end up just like you Chase."

"You know the Heylin are cursed." The voice inside of Jack spoke, a horrible parody of the DJ's voice, echoing off of the walls of the backalley. "To get back at your betrayal of your original nature, whoever you love will come to ruin. Forget us, our names, and what we were before. Forget the games, forget toying with us as we grew and became stronger. Forget us, Chase Yung."

The Raimundo puppet then lunged with berserk fury, sinking teeth and knife into Jack above, who in turn emptied a clip into the Brazilian's chest. Blood, right and glowing like the very blood of the city, incadescant light without warmth, but not beautiful— sickly—spilled over the warlord and burnt like acid.

When he awoke, starting from his bed in a cold sweat he couldn't recall the faces, voices or names of the boys. Eventually, he forgot them altogether.

And the roar of angony split the Sleepless City.


	3. Gaining a ChancePtI

_Notes: The last chapter was spontaneous and random, sort of a segway into this event. Each chapter is written so that it can stand alone (unless it's written in parts, like this one), but they are still all part of one piece. This way, if you don't like a pairing, you can skip a chapter, and read only chapters of pairings you like. But if you read the whole thing, there is in fact a plotline... mweheheh. So, be open-minded, but I don't think I have to tell yous guys that. Pairing: Clack(friendship this chapter)_

**Lost Rhythm Rhapsody**

_Gaining a Chance (Pt.I)_

Crashing, careening casualty; death seemed certain, imminent, as things slowed down… time _stopped_ as those headlights flashed in his eyes. He could have activated his helibot to get away, but he didn't because his nerves were entirely frozen from sheer fear.

And he regretted so much. Why not simply let it fly away right now? But he had a chance to make up for it all, if only he could live.

Burn. Sear. Pain. He was knocked flying by a jet of flame, and landed heavily on the asphalt, scraping his shoulder and face, the mechanical backpack pushing painfully into his back—he felt something inside him _grind_. He heard a scream, or maybe it was two, and whether it were himself or someone else he didn't know until he felt a wet, sticking splatter of something on his chest, seeping through the mesh of his shirt easily. Tears streamed from his eyes, mixing with his blood and he let out a low moan before ha blacked out from the pain, his last vision that of a feral man with forest-green hair…

"_What_ did you do?"

"Simple. It was better he be burned and live than be crushed and die." A deep, dark voice, rumbling with the undertones of deadly magma. That's what Clay had often compared the Immortal's voice to.

"Ya'll didn't even think about the other person there, did ya'?"

The amber eyes flashing from the dark were uncaring. "_They_ were not my objective."

"Awfergodsakes, Chase, you could have saved them too!" The American raged, smashing his fist into a wall.

The eyes narrowed in the darkness, shining out like golden, piercing lasers. "That is where you are wrong, Baily. From where I was standing only one person could be saved, without revealing my form or causing the car to swerve towards more people. I merely chose who was to live and who was to die. Lamenting for the lost will get their souls nowhere. And I expect that DJ—"

"Jack. Jack Spicer." Clay gritted his teeth… what was Yung getting to? Didn't he know Jack's name?

"That DJ Spicer, he will make good of this second chance. If you happen to see him while filing your reports at the hospital, tell him that." The eyes disappeared, and Clay Baily was left alone by a wrecked car and a fresh bloodstain.

But at least someone had lived.

* * *

At the hospital, Clay did indeed plan to see how Jack was doing. He dropped off his papers and asked about the patient… the nurse nodded and directed him to the proper room.

There he was, lying on the bed, bandaged. He was being treated for burns and some cracked ribs… the scrapes were nothing but would leave slight scars that would show up easily on his pale skin as slightly glossy reminders of a brush with death. Darker-than-usual circles showed under his closed eyes, but not darker than the tearstripe tattoos that lay atop them.

"Sleepin' I guess…?" Clay asked tentatively before stepping out.

"Nah, wait…. whoizzit?" The DJ's voice was muzzy and confused, probably due to the morphine he was on.

"It's Clay… Jack, I've got to go, you get rested, alright?" He tried to step out again.

"Rest? Fuckin' bullshit. I can't sleep like this, you _will_ come here and talk to me." Even after all of that, the young man was still as cocky as ever. Having a cancelled run-in with the Grim Reaper had probably only made it worse.

The Policeman chuckled and walked in and pulled up a chair, sitting ass-backwards on it with his arms draped over the front. _Typical cowboy_. "Awright, I'll humor ya'."

"No humor in a shit situation like this." He made an almost pouting face, squinting one eye and looking absolutely peeved. He would have crossed his arms if he had half the strength to. The event had certainly not improved his choice of language. "How long until I'm out?"

Laughing again, Clay shook his head, his hat flopping around and his straw-like hair making a _shwif_sif noise brushing across his forehead. "Why're ya'll asking me? I don't know. Be patient."

"Patient? You could have asked them." He pointed accusingly at Clay, though the gesture wasn't without it's fondness.

Grin, grin, grin. It's all the man could do in the presence of Jack, who despite horrible injuries was still as much of a nest of hornets as ever. "Yeah, I guess I coulda'. Don' wear yerself out, Jack."

"You say that as if it were possible. I'm built for speed and endurance." Jack asserted, leaning back.

"Don't speed up too much, ya'll bleed easy, y' hear?"

"I bet you I heal up and get out of this hellhole of a hospital in under a week."

A slow, dry smile broke across Clay's face. "Yer on. What're we betting?"

To say the least, Jack had hardly expected that. "Uh… I dunno. I bet… If I win, you have to wear some raver clothes instead of those boring jeans and oxfords, you got me?" His face was the epitomy of smugness. "Better start picking out an outfit, Baily, I can feel myself mending up right now!" He flexed his arm and let out a yelp of pain, a few tears running down his still grinning face. "The fact I can feel anything means I'm out of morphine…. tell 'em I need more, would ya'?"

Nodding, Clay got up. "Awright, Jack, like I said, don't ya'll mess yerself up like 'is, 'kay?"

"Yeah, yeah. Heard you the first time cowboy." Jack snorted.

Clay nodded and left, whistling a song to himself. He informed the nurses just what Jack had said, and as he was walking out the door to his motorbike, he realized something.

Jack Spicer had tricked him out of his side of the bet! There was one condolence as he drove off, chuckling to himself.

It didn't matter. He didn't expect to win anyway.

* * *

"Stop using metaphors!" Jack groaned, having just been compared to a newt for his rejuvination abilities. "That gets annoying really fast!" 

"Sorry, sorry! It's jest—lookit' ya'!" Clay laughed amiably, the smaller man had showed up waiting for him at Police HQ, bandaged, panting a bit from effort, but still for the most part he was healed. To think only five days earlier he was doped up on drugs twiddling his thumbs, willing himself to get better with only bad TV shows, hospital food, spite and healthy rivalry to fuel him.

That didn't stop him from complaining about the pain, however, though he had downed about three codine already as Clay watched, he would let people know he was uncomfortable. _Typical Jack_.

"Yeah. And if you're done admiring me so, we have a deal, if I remember right. Ow. Don't even try that 'you were on drugs and seeing things' bullshit, either. Stop laughing, GAWD!" Jack made a swat at Clay, knocking his hat off, which only served to make him laugh more, holding on to the brick wall of the HQ building for support. "WHAT? WHAT'S SO DAMN FUNNY? Really, I'd like to know."

Catching his breath, Clay bent down to pick up his hat, that grin still plastered all over his face. "I don't know how someone so _skinny_ an' so _short_ comes of bein' so _tough_!"

"What the _hell_ is that supposed to mean? I'll have you know tha—OW!" He doubled over some and grabbed his twinging side and just glared at Clay. "I could TOTALLY kick your ass if I was in top condition."

Clay kept laughing and having a good time, but waved a hand, signaling for Jack to calm down. "Whoa, whoo-aa, hey pard'ner, don't undo all that mendin' ya'll an' th' doctors been up to."

For a moment, Spicer though about retorting, but realized that the Texan was right. "Yeah. Anyway, you got the clothes?"

"You don't forget easily, do you?"

"Nope. Never." He held out a hand expectantly. "If you don't have any clubbing outfits, I'll pick it out for you."

Sighing, Clay shook his head. "I'm 'fraid I wouldn't know what t' pick. It's an easy bet'n all, but why clothes…?"

"You'll see. Anyway, that means you're coming with me." Jack grabbed Clay's arm and tried unsuccessfully to pull him along. He shot a look over his shoulder, and Clay (though chuckling once again at Jack) was compelled to obey.

"Where're we goin' to, Jack?"

"Where do you think we're going? Honestly. I'm buying you those damned rave clothes, then we're going clubbing."

"WHAT? That was NOT part of th' deal!" Clay would have pulled away, but he was afraid he'd hurt Jack.

"No, it wasn't." That was all Jack said, an incredibly smug look on his face.

* * *

"I'm not comin' out Jack, I look like a damned fool." 

"Oh really? You do a good job of that anyway." Jack quipped looking at his fingernails and leaning nonchalantly against the dressing room wall. "It can't be that bad, if it is we'll find something else."

The sound of rustling cloth came from behind the door, and some grumbling, before the doorknob slowly turned and the door opened. Hatless and looking a bit ruffled, the policeman walked out, wearing black denim jeans, though not entirely tight fitting were still a bit snug, a western-style black leather vest and a loose white tanktop under it, emblazoned with the name of some beachfront something. Jack hadn't cared, it looked cool to him. Windsurfing, Corpus Christi, that was it. Still very Texan, with a bit of something else that pulled at the back of Jack's mind…

Hands-on-hips Jack looked the American over approvingly, smirking and nodding. "Waitwaitwait!" His face fell a bit and he wagged a pale, swirl-painted finger. "Headband. I won the bet, you are not getting away with this."

Clay sighed and gabbed the Harley-Davidson do-rag from his pocked and tied it on over his hay-blonde mop of shaggy hair. "Happy?" He grumbled. He wasn't used to dressing very differently than he used to, his clothing style had changed little from when he was younger.

Naturally, Jack's words matched his thoughts. "Yup. Look at it this way, I'm doing you a favor. Be more adventurous and stuff, ya' know? WAIT. Take off the headband."

"Heavens, Spicer, make up yer mind!" Clay was on the verge of tearing off the headband, but resisted, still a bit of a grin on his face anyway. Now Jack was toying with him when it had been the other way around earlier.

"Great, you can put it back on, there's just one more thing you need." Quick as a flash, the lithe DJ had scrambled up Clay's back and onto his shoulders—not unlike a monkey… it would figure— and pulled something out of his deep patch-pocket.

"HEYHEYHEY, WHAT'RE YA'LL DOIN', STOPIT!"

"HOLD STILL, COWPOKE!"

A store clerk had stopped outside the door, listening to the commotion inside, obviously she was more than just a bit confused. It sounded like they were…

"No, no no!" Clay laughed, unable to escape the clinging Jack, who was spraying his hair bright, blacklight green with the aerosol he had hidden. "Stop that!"

"Shut up and take it like a man!" Jack continued spraying here and there, playfully swinging an arm around Clay's head to keep him muffled and quiet.

"MMF! LEMMEGHOH!"

The Texan gave a mighty shake, and Jack went flying, letting out a half-laugh, half-OH-SHIT sort of noise. Of course, Clay didn't let him fall far before he caught the pale DJ, who grinned and sprayed one last copious cloud of fluorescent hairspray.

Baily coughed and waved the visible fumes away, eyes watering. "UGH! What wazzat for, Jack? Got it all over me, I'm chokin'!"

"Heh… whups." Jack hid the can behind his back and ran out of the door, an American with green hair not far behind.

The clerk stared for a good long while as the pair exited a store (not without Jack smashing headlong into a clothes display rack, of course, and Clay stopping, laughing, helping him pick it up.

_Chances were, she'd remember this for quite a while. Especially considering what was about to happen…_


	4. TwoSided City

**Notes: **_Claymundo this chapter. I got crazy inspired and spent all day today writing this. I wanted to focus on a different side of the Sleepless City. Lyrical credits to: _Hands_ for "Dance of Light and Darkness" and "Knock/Enter" and to... _someone_... (I forgot the name!) for "Walking in the Sky". Speacial thanks to maximum-doghnuts (or... however you spell your name on FF, I'm horrible . ) a.k.a Ferret for helping me with a good portion of this chapter!_

****

**Lost Rhythm Rhapsody**

_Two-Sided City_

* * *

_Here we go again_

_Over and over_

_The Light and Darkness Dance_

_Can't remember my face_

_From time to time_

_I Travel the Highway_

_Without a map or signs..._

* * *

Exalted, energy, emergence. He stepped out on the flat of his apartment building and looked up, the buildings seeming to tower to the roof of forever, the clouds hovering around slowly, lazy in the summer morning sunshine. The sound of the Monorail buzzing overhead, casting it's shadow over the tan boy on the asphalt. A deep breath, and a run, he was heading for the edge of the roof.

And he jumped.

And he fell.

And he flew.

Ricocheting from the wall of the grungy apartment complex to the next building, he rolled on his hip and to his feet, resuming running without missing a step, a grin on his face and it was as if wings had replaced his sneakers. Across the next roof, he grabbed the railing and vaulted from it, his clothes fluttering in the warm, moist urban air as he flipped and turned, falling through a shadow of a water tower and out of it, into the clear light again and onto the next roof, only to spring up, front-flip across it and spring from the edge...

Over the Highway.

He took hold of the sign and nonchalantly watched the cars and trucks go by, leaning against it and pulling a water bottle from his pack. A few deep gulps of clear water, and he was ready to get out of the smokey air that gathered around the huge roadway. He picked a big truck, a semi hauling... something, whatever it was he didn't care. He jumped on it and rolled, enjoying the speedy ride.

Let Jack have the Night, let Jack have the dark and heavy bass, the sweating, twisting dance to pay homage to the Darkness and the lasers that stabbed through it, to pay homage to the Music itself, the dizzying drinks, and even the other strangers around. He deserved it.

But during the Day... During the Day, the City and all of it's shadows and sunbeams, parks and highways belonged to Raimundo.

It was his gold-drenched playground.

He leaned with the movements of the speeding truck, but it wasn't fast enough. Not for him. So he spotted a sportscar and took an incredible leap to land atop it. The car swerved a bit as he did, but not much. People were used to freerunners hopping on and off their cars. Two knocks on the ceiling and the driver sped up, gladly. Rai crouched as if her were surfing, around the sharp turns and high angles of the multistoried, twisting superhighway. And at last, at one sharp turn in particular, he flipped into the air, his feet pounding at the air, sinking into it and then springing off and upwards, wisting, diving, away from the highway and towards the park, towards the arboretums and the beach, letting out a joyous laugh as he spun.

_When you're walking in the Sky_

_Heaven's holding hands with you_

_So you'd better learn to fly_

_Before you're falling through..._

He had never _really _grown up like the others... like Dashi before him he was able to keep the joy and freedom of the wind in his heart, the playful wily torrent of breath that feeds us all, keeps us alive when there is no hope. He made things up as he went along, improvised, trusted in luck and the world to make it happen. The same could be said in this City, he had never despaired of it's state. He could defend it, because he loved it. He loved the people within it.

At twenty-five years old, Raimundo was just a big kid, but also _so much more_.

_Twenty-Five Winters and Counting_

_Any kind of Knock has forsaken our Door_

_Running for our Lives_

_And still flying metal kites_

_In Slight Winds_

Singing.

Trekking through the air like a drunken butterfly.

Improvisation.

A Utopia of shadow, of bright light, of reflections of the sun off of clear, clean glass and steel; of a rainbow of skilled graffiti and people playing games of lacrosse, basketball-- races across the asphalt, racing people worrying about being late to work or class or to meet someone, people playing music on street corners and painting pictures, peddling wares, bothering others for fun-- people taking it easy, just watching the city. And so Raimundo Pedrosa watched the City from above.

Watched _his_ City from above.

Soon enough, from all of the flying and various acrobatics, Raimundo needed a break. He paused for a moment over the sky-high monorail track, and when the next train came by, he dropped on the top of it. Through the window he had seen a familiar face, so, smirking, he wrapped his legs around the antennae and hung upside-down in front of it. He mouthed a good morning to everyone, waving and grinning cheerfully.

A few people screamed, a few twitched and a few more threw shifty glances but pretended he wasn't there. Even if he was a Guardian of the City, he did have a reputation for pranks. A man walked over from the back of the train, and knocked on the window right in front of Raimundo's face with a gloved hand.

"Well, hullo there, Baily!" Raimundo yelled through the window, trying to peek around the big hand by swinging back and forth. He caught a glimpse of a hat, some blond hair, but no eyes. Bummer. He wasn't about to let it go. "Move your freaking hand Clay!"

He heard a few people laugh, not least of all the big Texan. He opened a couple of fingers and peeked at Rai from between them. "When are ya'll gonna' learn to get on at the station and pay like th' rest of us?"

"Fat chance." The Brazilian snorted, loud enough to be heard. "Just open the window so we can talk like normal people."

"One of us is upside-down, that's about as natural as a chicken wearing steel-toed boots."

Raimundo wrinkled his nose. "Man, does it ever get any worse? _Open the window_."

* * *

Hands jammed in pockets, whistling a tune, walking along jauntily beside his fellow policeman, Raimundo tossed his errant hair out of his eyes and laughed again. "Clay, you've got a motorcycle, what the hell were you doing riding the rails?"

"Jest a feeling, if ya'll catch my drift. I just figgered I'd save some gas or somethin'." He shrugged his broad shoulders.

"Clay. EARTH TO CLAY. Which shouldn't be to hard, y' know." he reached up to rap his knuckled on Clay's skull, but his head moved to one side, grinning. "The people here are nuts. _They use those little mancala marbles for money, _for cryin' out loud. Save money on gas? Bull."

"Heyheyhey, watch it. Nah, it was jest a whim." He avoided a swiftly-running b-boy and his buddy, double-taking. "That was Jermain, wazzn' it?"

"Yeah, it was, actually, he hangs out here a lot... HEY MAN, WHATCHA DOIN' JUS' RUNNIN' LIKE THAT? Get back over here, Jermain!" Rai yelled back. "Can't say 'hi', or what?"

"AND WHAT, Rai, man?" He threw his arms wide, tossing his basketball at his friend. "You ain't gonna' do nothin' about it!"

"Oh, wanna' bet?" He smirked and walked towards Jermain, pumping his arm threateningly.

"Yeah, man, you know I could beatchu any time." He also walked foreward, mirroring Raimundo's smirk. They looked about ready to fight, and Clay was going to step in...

That was before they laughed at each-other, and embraced, patting each-other on the back like brothers. 'Haven't seen ya' in a while, germ. Where ya' been?"

"Oh, you know, workin' clubs, gettin' the message out there." He waved his hand in a "big picture" sort of fashion, his friend nodding along behind him. Jermain was a well known MC now; his particular style of rapping he had based off of the rhythms of Chinese poems had gotten him criticism at first, but fame after a bit. He grinned and nodded his head to Clay. "An' you I haven't seen in even longer, man, what's been happenin'?"

The other American tipped his large hat. "Jest lookin' after the city. lookin' after Rai, too, when I can. Ya'll know how much trouble he ken cause."

"Hey, what's that supposed to mean? I resent that!" Raimundo talked with his hands, just like always. Clay used his accent to convey his message, and small gestures, and his true-blue eyes as well, just like always. Jermain's talking was rhythmic, bouncing along to the underlying urban heartbeat, bobbing his head and moving his shoulders and one hand, just like always. They were each a part of the City, each with their own poetry, and movement, something Raimundo loved to think about and watch.

He loved to groan at Clay's hopelessly corny speech patterns, he loved to pretend to fume at Jermain when he was "throwin' jokes", to listen to their laughter echo off the buildings and the cars. To love and be loved. To get annoyed and have to move when the windows reflected sunlight into his eyes, to get annoyed and have to move when Clay was reflecting light off of his badge into his eyes on PURPOSE, and to threaten Jermain when he picked up a trashcan lid for the same dastardly purpose that if he went blind from all the damage he would _still_ be able to kick his ass.

That was love. The best kind, the kind that makes people stick together.

The heat behind the forging of alloy-like brotherhood.

And more.

"I'm gonna' go get some food. Catch you guys later...?" He jumped on top of a parking meter, ready to spring to the awning of the shop they had been talking in front of and beyond. He loved being able to run across the City as he pleased, he counted it as yet another blessing.

"I gotta' go too. See you on the flip side, hope you're bouncer at the gig next week!" Jermain hand-jive saluted Raimundo and Clay and sauntered of, his head bobbing to his inner poetry, his message taking form, to preform, a new form...

Clay tipped his hat to Raimundo. "If ya'll wouldn't mind, I'd be glad to go with ya t' get some grub."

"AH! Sure thing!" He hopped down to stand beside Clay, grinning wolfishly. "You're _always_ hungry."

"Aww, be quiet." He pulled off the hat and smacked at Raimundo with it, causing him to raise up his arms in mock-defensiveness and laugh out loud.

"Awright, awright, I'm sorry! Where to?"

And so they walked on.

* * *

A picnic lunch.

Brilliant.

Raimundo lay stretched out on the grass of the hill that they had eaten on, white hoodie discarded, his eyes closed and his hands behind his head, his feet twitching about to some song that he hummed half out-loud and half in his head. It had been a great day so far, and a thousand times he had thanked Clay for his great cooking. He let the slight breeze of the park wash over him and the warmth collected by the grass seep into his back and his arms. He eventually stopped humming and lay still, as if asleep.

He was thinking, mostly, about things that had happened, obstacles overcome, particularly memorable pranks. He heard shuffling, but it didn't register in his mind until he felt a bare hand across his face.

Brotherly.

And so much more.

Clay must have thought he was asleep, he figured. He had just been laying there for a while, and he was a notorious napper as it was. It honestly didn't surprise Raimundo, oddly enough. He just let it happen, though it was hard to stay silent, to not speak up.

If Clay wasn't ready to tell him anything while he was awake, he could wait up for him. With age he had at least gained some patience, though it was frustrating with all of the hints he had dropped Clay's way.

Maybe he had been wrong this whole time, maybe Clay did understand.

He didn't know how right he was until he heard a murmur of the American's voice. "I know you're awake, Rai, stop pretendin'."

As childlike as Raimundo was, he had almost forgotten they had all grown up. Clay had never been as dumb as he let on, maybe not very smart, but incredibly wise anyway. "Yeah. I'm not." That was all he said for now. _Just wait..._

"I've got to go soon, my shift starts in an hour and I need to be there on time, but I've gotta' say afore I go what I've been meanin to say fer a while. But I ain't never been one to speak much, so..."

"Want me to say it for you?" Raimundo smiled wryly.

"Shut up!" Clay laughed. "Shut up..." He bent down and left a brushing kiss on Rai's lips, but it sent no fewer sparks through either of their minds and hearts than if it had been longer.

The Brazilian was in fact speechless for once, grinning dumbly, opening his eyes, glinting happily up at the cowboy.

_"I always knew you were gay."_

More laughter, and another well-earned whap from Clay's hat, and more warm talk, brotherly and more, before they went their separate ways for the day.

_They'd meet again come the dark, under lights of a different kind._

* * *

He knew he'd recognize it when he saw it.

Perfect. Everything about it was perfect. It's curves, the lushness of it's shade. The Brazillian napped in the twisted willow tree, catching as much sleep as he could before the night rush, shaded from blazing afternoon sun, but not from the blaring cicadas. He yelled a few Portuguese expletives, something surrounding the main idea of "shut up". Strangely enough they listened to him. He nodded off every once and a while, between his catnaps he hid and threw sticks playfully at Kimiko, who made park rounds for security this time of day. She threw a few fireballs back, screaming insults but laughing nonetheless, reminding Raimundo that she'd "kill him if he did it again."

He jumped out of the tree, walking... no... dancing down the sidewalk, towards a City that was just starting to buzz with a second set of citizens.

Raimundo... it meant "World of Light," or perhaps "Light of the World", depending on how you translated it. Whatever the order it was in, it really did describe him, a child of the sunlight, and all at once, a man of the City.

At last.

Golden Dusk.

People were going to sleep.

People were also waking up.

It was as if there were two different worlds... two separate cities. yes two sides of the same flipping-coin.

Soon enough, the sun would set, and Raimundo would hand "his City" over to Jack, hand it over to the night, to the inside. As the sun set, he went from King to Vagabond, and when it rose, he would be King again.

_He wouldn't have it any other way._


End file.
